Complicated
by Shot Through Quiver
Summary: two lives were broken with the snap of a finger. - jasmine, volkner.
1. jasmine flowers

**デンジ**

**Denzi.**

_remember the departed man of no return._

He was like one of those poorly written romance novels that littered her floor, dog-eared with bent spines and her small, adorable, slanting handwriting. He had sworn he would never read them – and he didn't – but on some occasions, curiosity swallowed him whole and he would peruse the summary. It was generally the same: the boy and girl would meet somehow, somewhere, and they would fall in love on the spot, but their families wouldn't allow it, so they ran away from home and most certainly ended up happily ever after, with a couple of children to boot.

His finger would always hover at the last (almost always trailing) sentence before he threw the paperback to its home once again. He had seen enough of real life to know that books never told the truth; his parents were proof enough: they despised each other; it was almost a wonder how he was ever born.

He would always stare at the sorry looking book on the worn, hardwood floor before he would rise, turn with a scowl and slam her screen door shut behind him.

It frightened him just how close his world was to theirs, just how easily it could fall apart, just how long it took to mend it back together.

* * *

Their relationship was a beautiful, elegant one, to say the least.

It was filled with sunset walks on deserted beaches, midnight kisses at deserted coffee shops, clasped hands while meandering through the outdoor market.

It was silent and discreet, and they both liked it that way; they both agreed that there was absolutely no substance in flashy, raunchy relationships.

But Volkner never confided in Jasmine that sex-driven love lasted a bit longer than beautiful, endearing, till-the-end love.

He supposed he was afraid of losing her before their relationship had even truly begun.

He was a stupid, foolish man to be afraid of something as petty as love.

* * *

They always kissed in solitude, never near her childish, frilly, purple bedroom; she wasn't _that _type of woman. They would always embrace one another on her sagging, dilapidated charcoal couch; he would send small, short, silent butterfly kisses up and down her neck, and she would give him long, honey-sweet kisses near his forehead and ear. She would wind her tiny, bony fingers through his corn-yellow hair, and he would rest his head on her shoulder, and breathe in the familiar, homey scent of lilacs and honeysuckle. She would cup his face and plant one lingering kiss on his lips, and she would pull away almost instantaneously, making him yearn for her even more.

But that was the end. It never lasted more than four minutes (Volkner had timed it once, he had admitted this sheepishly to Jasmine) and never faulted in order, always ending with her long, saccharine-sweet kiss. It was always the same, and Volkner situated himself comfortably, relieved that everything in their relationship was constant.

He was guaranteed that much from her.

* * *

Alcohol had turned him into a raging, hungry, desperate, despicable monster.

Jasmine writhed and squirmed under his dominating hand; she was pinned down neatly under Volkner. (He despised himself for imagining her as a tiny Deerling, ready to be devoured.)

He began, rather cruelly and mockingly, with the beginning of their little couch ritual. He leaned down and placed short, butterfly kisses down her neck and along her collarbone, ignoring her rapid shuddering and flinching. He slowly crept lower and lower, kissing near the hem of her white, one-piece dress. Volkner lowered himself over her and smelled her hair, inhaling its scent as if it were a stimulant.

After this "step" (Volkner had formed their ritual into a sorry set of rigid, staunch rules), Volkner would be stepping into unknown territory. He would be free to do as he liked (he should have hated himself for thinking this).

After a moment of sadistic, thoughtful silence, his long, probing fingers slowly pulled down on the white, cotton straps of her dress. Her body immediately became taut, as rigid as a piece of plywood. He pulled farther and farther until he was satisfied and set off to work.

He kissed and kissed, each kiss kindling his mad, desperate urge to discover every part of her small, slender body. His fingers pored over her like a historian over a long-forgotten tome; his lips traced every ascent and depression on her smooth, pale chest. His fiery urge overcame him completely, his fingers pulled lower and lower, fingering – until he looked up at her face.

She had the haunting look of a dead maiden, laid to rest underneath a brilliant, blue sky. Her lips were still, her cheeks looked hollow and sunken, her skin was a pale, pasty gray.

But her eyes told it all.

They were dead, completely hopeless, all life sucked out of them. Her eyes weren't a rich, chocolate brown anymore; they were a fathomless and depthless grey. Jasmine seemed to register that Volkner was looking at her, and a miniscule portion of her former self returned. Her eyes suddenly became steely and guarded, hatred seeping through every pore of her delicate, porcelain-like features.

Her hands groped for the straps of her dress, and she pulled it over her goose bump riddled chest.

"Volkner."

Those two syllables that bounced off her lips jerked him out of his beastly stupor. He looked down at her, and her eyes had become that horrible, dingy gray once again. Jasmine had lost all the life within her; she could only mouth one word: "Leave."

Volkner did, like a pitiful dog with its tail in between its legs.

Outside, the cool night air smelled sickeningly like blooming jasmines.

_fin._

* * *

#2 on the 100 Themes Challenge. Currently writing one for Steven and Flannery.

Link for original playlist: 8tracks (.com) / wizardcity / complicated


	2. hangover

**アスナ**

**Asuna.**

_the walls we build around us to keep out the sadness also keep out the joy._

_jim rohn._

Their relationship was laughably simple; it was a pick-me-up relationship, nothing more, nothing less.

_There's no real love, there will never be. He's too far-gone to ever come back. _Flannery told herself repeatedly, unsuccessfully.

But slowly, bit-by-bit, she fell in love with this heartbroken, wasted soul stuffed into a body that was already dead to begin with.

* * *

They met on Flannery's last day of summer vacation, on the craggy, rock-strewn shores of Sunyshore City. She was hoping to battle the strong, elusive "shining, shocking star" that she so often heard of in Hoenn, amid wistful sighs and giggles.

She had searched all through the city, incessantly questioning the shopkeepers, to the point where a vegetable dealer threw a sack of cabbages at her with a questionable choice of words. He was nowhere to be found; it was astonishing as to how he pulled it off. Wherever Flannery went, she was always recognized, no matter what hairstyle or clothes she had that day. And here was Volkner, someone even more famous than her, who had disappeared within his own city!

The cool wind billowing through her glossy red hair, she made her way to the beach shore, far away from the hustle and bustle of the metropolitan area behind her. She settled herself on a huge white rock set firmly between two others, and stared out towards the turbulent blue-gray waves.

Oceans always entranced her: they were so vast, so full of life, so beautiful. The little hot spring back in Lavaridge Town was nothing compared to this vast blue _thing _(there was no way to describe it). The sea spray light and refreshing on her face, Flannery basked in the momentary sunlight peeking from behind the clouds, before realizing with a jolt that someone was there.

There was a faint clicking sound, amid mutters of outrage, loud enough to be heard over the constant crashing of the waves. Flannery slowly slid down the weathered boulder, walking slowly down the beach, back towards the road leading to the city.

Her ruby eyes finally caught sight of a blonde-haired man, sitting near the deserted lifeguard house, toying with an old, rusty looking matchbox.

"Excuse me?"

The man sat up with a jolt and a scowl; piercing blue met warm red, and Flannery had a shock of realization: this was the famed Volkner.

He looked worse for wear, his eyes were sunken with gray circles around them, his hair was mussed and tangled; it looked like he was in a never-ending hangover.

"Yes?"

"You're Volkner, am I correct?"

"Yes, and as you can clearly see, I am not in any condition to accept a battle challenge."

With one final, successful _click_, Volkner lit a cigarette, balanced it between his long, lithe fingers, and took one long, shuddering drag.

She wasn't expecting this at _all._

They were the equivalent of movie stars; they were the headlines for the major tabloids, the subject of many heated discussions between the young and old alike, the scale for _other _relationships. It was absolutely hilarious, Flannery mused while flipping through PokéStar, perusing the many articles with cheesy titles like The Electric-Hot Chemistry! and How Shocking Is Your Fiery Passion?

It was an easy relationship, no chemistry, nothing, nothing but empty kisses and mindless lovemaking.

They were both too far gone to even worry about their reputations: they were foolishly happy, wallpapering their worries behind a raunchy relationship. They drowned their sorrow and despair through bottles of bitter beer and choice wines. They never kissed to remember; they kissed to forget.

They were trapped in a beautiful birdcage of their own design; no way out, even though they wanted to stay in, ignorant but carefree.

* * *

Wake up. Get drunk. Have sex. Sleep.

Wake up. Flannery almost always woke up with a hangover, eyes bleary, head swimming. She was used to it by now; it was synonymous with having an annoying mosquito buzzing near her ear. She would almost always be in some slutty piece of lace lingerie that would have been stripped off of her the previous night. It would be almost eleven in the morning; by this time, she would have been out and about, perhaps in the market or out training. Flannery would lie in bed, thinking, until Volkner slowly stirred with a tell tale groan. They would mechanically get up, straighten the bed (there was no point; it always looked worn out, like intimacy was ground into it), and go take a shower. The hangover was always omnipresent.

Get drunk. There was a four-hour time period before this process, where Flannery and Volkner would go out and have some human interaction, mainly with Flint and Candice. They would wander through Sunyshore, in the outdoor market, where they actually felt like a couple. It was a rare time that they both cherished. They returned home with a replenished stock of wine, beer, rum, liquor, anything. They drank all of it, in the midst of chaste, sweet kisses. Through each passing hour, they became more and more intimate, shedding clothes, losing each and every inhibition. Oddly enough, their hangover never worsened.

Have sex. The pinnacle of her day. Flannery would let herself go, scream his name, and wrench his hair, _oh_, it hurt so much, but it felt so good. Volkner would slowly, teasingly, cast off her clothes, while he remained fully clothed. And she would, in a frenzy, rip his clothes off, kiss and kiss, feel him inside her. She would arch her back, moan, wanting more and more, throwing sheets away, while haphazardly kissing him all the while. She was on a high, she was alive, she was _alive_. It would end as quickly as it had started, with simple, meaningless kisses and soft whispers of nothing.

Sleep. She would drift into nothing, with Volkner beside her.

Wake up. Get drunk. Have sex. Sleep.

Her daily cycle was nothing more, nothing less.

They lasted a short while, Flannery lost track: a month, maybe two?

They weren't angry; they were just tired.

She left Sunyshore with a hastily scrawled note, a single, exhausted kiss.

They were over.

And Flannery was fine with that.

_the sad thing is it could have been._


End file.
